Gotta Learn How to Fall
by Sigyn
Summary: Another Kids From Fame Story, Bruno's fate through Angelo's eyes.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note :** This idea has been floating around for a while, and so, I finally decided to write it and post it. I took Aryea's lead and posted this here, figured the Fame fanfics should be together. I obviously own nothing... except some clothes... books... a computer... I've tried to stay true to the show and the characters. Since, to my knowledge, we don't hear much about Bruno's mother, I took some liberty. My sincere apologies if anything is incorrect. This was originally intended to be a one shot... but, well, I didn't really end it properly for that now did I? And yes, reviews are most welcome :). Hope you enjoy!

_Gotta Learn How to Fall_

Angelo Martelli awoke. He moved to wrap the covers more tightly around him, but, as it turned out, there were no covers. Still groggy, he stretched and rose from his bed, reasoning that he must've kicked the covers off sometime in the night. Something was clouding his eyes. He rubbed them, then froze, mouth falling open in awe. Everywhere he looked he saw only a billowy whiteness, as though he were encased in a cloud. He appeared to be floating; he could feel no floor beneath his feet now that he thought of it. The mist cleared for a second as he moved his hand, but rushed back in again.

"Hello?" he called out, the panic beginning to rise in his voice.

Silence.

"Hello! Is anyone there?" he called out again, and waited.

"Good morning," came the reply, surprisingly close, almost beside him.

"Can you tell me where I am?" he asked.

"You, my dear friend, are dead."

Angelo stared into the mist, not comprehending. Dead, what did it mean to be dead? No longer alive, no longer eating, drinking or breathing. "Dead?" he whispered, and quickly sat down. "Dead?" he asked again.

"Dead," confirmed the voice. And it all came back. The slight ache in his left arm, it had been coming and going for weeks, no cause for worry. Or so he had believed. No time for rest anyway, he needed the money for Bruno's school, a new year had begun. He'd barely made the deadline for last year's final payment in August. No time for a doctor. It had been Bruno's first day back in school, and Angelo had been on his second customer of the day. That was when it all went wrong. His client had been an elderly lady, rich and laden with incredibly heavy amounts of luggage. He lifted the first bag into the trunk, his arm acting up again. He lifted the second bag, the pain intensified. He lifted the third, and collapsed. Some glimpses of white light and masked faces, and then, darkness. Until now.

Angelo suddenly jumped. Bruno. A father is no use to his teenage son dead.

"What about my kid? I can't be dead yet! How's he gonna write his music? You have to send me back!" he pleaded.

"He will manage."

"He's too young. That's not his place! It's my job to take care of him, I'm his dad, not the other way around. You gotta send me back."

"That is something I can't do."

"Please, just until I can earn enough to pay for this year's school, just long enough to prepare him to live on his own, just long enough to say goodbye."

" I'm sorry Angelo, there is nothing I can do. There are certain laws of your world that even I have to abide by."

Angelo crumpled back on an invisible chair, rubbing his temples."I messed up, I really messed up."

"You did nothing of the sort," sighed the voice, "You humans and your guilt, you always insist on blaming yourselves for everything."

"What do you know? Do you have a kid?" snapped Angelo, then more calmly, "Who are you anyways?"

A ball of light flew in front of him. It grew slowly, vaguely humanoid at first, then more and more so. It was a man, dressed in casual attire. Close observation revealed the faintest outline of wings by his sides, framing his chequered shirt. His hair was the hue of sand, skin almost transparent, but the most disturbing features were the man's eyes: pupilless oceans of white. He smiled, while Angelo could only stare.

" I," he began, " am your guardian angel, my name is Eleazar. It is my duty to acclimatize you to the after life."

Angelo remained mute, it was all just too much. He could not shake the thought of his son left alone to face the world. There was so much that he still planned on. He'd wanted to be by his side when he signed his first recording contract, the first time the radio played his songs. He wanted to see his son giddy on the day of wedding, and he'd wanted to see the amazement in his eyes when he held his first child.

"Angelo. Angelo?" came Eleazar's voice, forcing him to focus on his current situation.

"Yeah?" he replied.

Eleazar sighed, " I've just been explaining everything to you, and now, it seems, I have to begin again."

Angelo straightened his back and made an effort to focus.

" Now, you've just demonstrated why you are here in the first place, instead of starting your new life. You cling far too much to your previous world. The devoutly religious are always much easier. The aim of their lives becomes pleasing some sort of divine being, or achieving an other worldly state. Most people take some convincing, but eventually move on. You, on the other hand, having died so suddenly, have some unfinished business, thus your guilt. However, once again, because of the suddenness of the situation, you still managed to cross over. You've lead a good life, Angelo, and done more for your son than you know. By all rights you deserve to be in a better place. But, you would not enjoy yourself. Everyday you would wake worrying for Bruno, wondering if he had to sell his synthesizers, if he ever realized your dreams for him."

Angelo thought for a minute, knowing very well that what the angel said was true. "So what happens now?"

"You can't go back, and you can't go forward, so you must stay still. You are currently residing in the Place Between. Here, you will be able to watch selected parts of Bruno's life, and by the time you've finished, he'll be waiting for you."

"But, how…"

"Time passes strangely here; it caters to its inhabitants."

Angelo nodded, a small smile forming on his lips. At least he could escape all that uncertainty; he would at least know what happened to Bruno.

"Where do I look? What do I have to do to see him?"

"Not yet, not yet. You will not be watching alone. Before you begin you must meet your viewing companion," informed Eleazar, and pointed.

Angelo turned. At first he saw nothing, only a hazy white. Then, the mist parted, and the figure of a woman stepped out. Angelo let out his breath, being unaware that he had held it in. She stood before him, as radiant as he'd ever seen her. Her hair was still the curly dark brown, almost black, that he remembered. Just like her son. His son. He would've bet anything in the world that she still smelled the same. And he was right.

"Bianca." he whispered, fearing that anything more would cause her to disappear. He quickly closed the distance between them, then hesitated. What if she disintegrated when he touched her? What if she were just a ghost, or an illusion? He couldn't bear to lose her a second time.

She laughed, and hugged him. " I've waited all these years and my own husband has forgotten how to hold me," she teased.

Angelo didn't care, she was here, she was solid and once again in his arms. He pulled back long enough to kiss her; she'd never tasted so sweet. His wife smiled, and brushed at the tears welling in her eyes, her beautiful eyes.

"Now, let's see how our boy turned out," she said as she untangled herself from him.

Angelo's face fell, "I should've -", he began, but Bianca cut him off.

"Don't say it, don't even think about it. All you ever did was love him too much," she said as she entwined her fingers with his. Her gaze drifted to their hands as she continued. " You did a fine job with him, you really did. He's grown into a caring, talented young musician."

Angelo smiled, truly smiled, relieved that he'd done well enough for the both of them. He glanced away, looking for the angel, but he was gone. Instead, a television now stood before them. He looked at Bianca, who apparently knew what to do, and turned it on. It crackled into life, and tuned itself to a picture of Bruno sporting a white apron and waiter's garb.

"And so we begin," said Angelo.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer : Once again, I own nothing**

Chapter 2

Bruno cleared off the table and headed towards the back, dropping the tray off in the kitchen. One minute till the end of his shift. He stretched his arms, sore after a day of carrying plates filled with spaghetti, lasagne, and everything else found in an Italian restaurant. He tossed his apron in the basket, and nodded to Caruso, ensuring his boss knew that he was leaving. Normally he would work till closing and spend a little extra time testing bits of music, letting the notes escape his head after a day of confinement, but not today. Today called for something a little more out of the ordinary, and so, stepping out into the warm September evening, Bruno ambled in the general direction of the subway. He spotted a vendor selling flowers, and inspected the bouquets, settling for an arrangement of pink and white carnations. He plotted his course as his went, reviewing the subway and bus numbers, the location of his transfers, and the walk through that subdivision.

"_Where's he going?" wondered Angelo. The station he was heading for lay nowhere near home, the school, nor any of his friends. And why on earth wasn't the boy taking a cab? He did have flowers; perhaps he'd met a girl living way out in the east end. Maybe pulling up in a cab isn't as impressive as it used to be… _

Bruno reached the station and boarded the train, taking the closest open seat. Easily falling into an old habit, Bruno studied the other travelers. You can learn so much just by watching, you can guess at occupations, general dispositions, and inspect the myriad of ways the two complement and clash with each other. You may even have the honour of playing a small role in someone else's life. Inspiration for anything creative is always only a heartbeat away.

A few seats down from him sat a young woman reading a magazine, inattentively rocking the stroller wherein sat her child. The child, who'd seen no more than a year's worth of this world, played with a rubber duck, perhaps taken from a pile of bath toys. He noticed Bruno, and leaned forward for a better look, his attention most likely captured by the curly mop of hair. The soft thump of the duck hitting floor brought his attention back to more serious matters. The little boy's face began to contort, and soon enough a wail erupted from his tiny mouth. His mother shushed him, still focused on the magazine, and continued to rock the stroller. Bruno took pity on him, and retrieved the duck, handing it back to its owner. Small hands grabbed the toy, and the tears stopped, all was quiet and good in the world once more. Bruno was rewarded with a smile from the infant, and a glare from the mother who took that time to look up from her read. He retreated back to his seat, and winked at the little boy who continued to smile.

_Angelo smiled too, and realized the truth of his wife's previous words. They had indeed a done fine job of raising Bruno. As he reflected, a picture of a five year old version of his son floated from his memory. The incident had a similar theme: a lost toy. Bruno had been playing in the backyard when he came running in, tears streaming down his face. "I lost it, I lost it Papa!" he managed to choke out between sobs. _

_Angelo bent to his knees to be on the same level as his son. He took him gently by the arms. "What Bruno? What did you lose?" _

"_The pipe you made me," Bruno sobbed. _

_Angelo wiped his child's face and hoisted him onto his neck. "Well then, we're just gonna have to go look for it."_

"_I didn't mean to lose it, Papa, I just put it down and then, when I came back, it was gone," Bruno continued, slightly more composed, "But we'll find it, won't we Papa?"_

"_Sure we will. And just in case we don't, I know where to get the wood for another one. If you keep being a good boy, maybe a little more careful, you might have something special for your birthday."_

_The child considered this, and said, "It wouldn't be fair, I lost it. You should be mad. Are you mad Papa?"_

_Angelo smiled, how could he ever stay mad at Bruno? He'd never seen a child with such a well developed conscience. It took them the rest of the day, but they combed the backyard, and found the pipe hidden close to the fence. The wind must've blown the light instrument away from its original place. _

_Angelo focused his attention back onto the screen, but by the look on Bruno's face, he had a feeling that they had just relived the same memory._

The rest of Bruno's journey passed without incident, and before he knew it, he'd transferred to the bus, and the bus had reached his stop. He trudged his way along the sidewalk, trees towering on either side of him, a sure sign that he was on the outskirts of the city. Apart from Central Park, there was very little green in the core of New York. The walk through the suburb was enjoyable, everything seemed so peaceful. With a small smile, he passed an elderly couple out for an evening stroll. How strange he must have looked to them, still in his waiter's white shirt and dress pants, miles away from the nearest restaurant. His mind was pulled from such thoughts by the appearance of a line of black iron fencing. A few more steps, and the fencing gave way to an opening, and a battered sign with Sunnydale Cemetery printed in formal letters. A bit of a contradiction, thought Bruno as he entered. Rows of tombstones greeted him, some level with the ground, some reaching skyward. His pace didn't slow as he weaved his way across the cemetery, twisting along a route he'd memorized on his first visit long ago. At last, he slowed, and knelt down, having arrived at his destination. He separated the flowers, the pink carnations he placed on the more weathered headstone and arranged them along the side. The white he laid on the next grave.

"Well Pop," he began, "Happy Deathday," Bruno paused, and reasoned this wasn't really the time for any dark humour, even if his father did get a chuckle out of it. He stayed silent for a moment, lost in some distant memory, then continued with more emotion in his voice, "You know, sometimes, only sometimes, I still wake up thinking you're there in the other room, and you just forgot to set the alarm clock or something. I'm getting better though, it just takes time, just like when mom went. I'm doing okay. I got a job as a waiter, it's great. Okay so it's not exactly great, but I have enough food, and clothes, what else could I need, right? And don't worry about school. It'll all work itself out." Somehow, I hope, Bruno added to himself. The truth was he dearly missed his old life and the School of the Arts that took up such a big part of it. It was a place where he could truly be himself, and become better and better at one of the most important thing in his life, music. "I've haven't stopped composing though," he started again, "The music is still all there in my head. The restaurant has a synthesizer, and no one minds me using it when the place isn't too packed. So, you see, everything's going to be just fine," he said, more to reassure himself than his parent. Bruno played with one of the carnations on his father's grave, having run out of words to comfort either of them. Replacing the flower in its original spot, he rose. "I'd better be going, still have to make myself something that'll pass for supper. Take care of Mom for me."

_Angelo reached for his wife's hand. Damn he wished he'd taken better care of himself now. A year gone already! A year since he'd left Bruno. If only he could've stayed, Bruno would still be in school. He couldn't believe that Bruno had to drop out, it didn't seem real. He belonged there, he'd always come home with such passionate stories of school and music, and all that he'd learned. Angelo sighed, at least Bruno hadn't given up, he was coping. He shouldn't have to, but at least he was capable. Angelo wiped at his eyes, who was he kidding? His son was still devastated. _

As Bruno turned to leave, he heard a voice singing, "Gone, gone, gone to the war, never to come back any more. Away, away, far far away, where the winds blow and the grass does sway."

An old woman stood in front of him, her hair curled into a bun, and an old lavender shawl wrapped about her shoulders over a dark, ragged dress.

"Can I help you?" Bruno asked, uncertain.

The old lady began circling the grave a row ahead, throwing flowers and humming as she went. As she came back towards Bruno, who stood transfixed, she had only one flower left.

"A pansy here, a daisy there, but I saved the best for last! For you, my dear, a rose, deepest red. Watch the thorns now, hold it carefully, and you'll keep each other good company!" She said as she handed him the rose. She stepped back, as though leaving, then stepped forward again towards Bruno, her eyes eager now.

"Have you seen my son? My darling Charlie? He was about your age when he left, yes, yes. Never came back, he did. Gone, swallowed by some beast I suspect. Never mind that, still, have you seen him?" she asked, as she inspected his hand, and in an odd turn of events, sniffed it.

Bruno pulled his hand away, more than a little alarmed. "Uh, sorry, no, I don't think so," he managed to reply.

It seems she hadn't expected a response since she jumped back, startled, as though he were a ghost.

"Ho hum dearie, what's that? Listening to us and me and little old we? Mustn't do that, no, no. Squished and burned from the inside you'll be if you keep this up. Just like Charlie, he listened to me, me, myself and I, Bernadette, Miss Bernie, dear old mum. Mustn't follow him there, not where he went, no, not a nice lad like you." She patted his shoulder and turned away, chanting, "By flames at night, we do delight, it burns and shrivels just like us, and makes less than half the fuss!"

Bruno shivered and turned away, walking as quickly as he could out of the cemetery, Bernadette's voice still ringing in his ears.

"_I know her," thought Angelo aloud. She'd hire his cab once a week, and ask to be taken around the block, explaining that she had nowhere to go, but liked the idea of having been somewhere. He had laughed at the time, and had always obliged, thinking it no harm. Now, he wondered. _

_The picture on the screen faded out. "What now?" he asked, what about the rest?_

"_It does that from time to time, it'll be back on in a few minutes," Bianca reassured him. _

_Angelo nodded and settled into a more comfortable position, awaiting the next glimpse into his son's life._


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer : same as always

Chapter 3

"Hey Bruno," called Caruso.

"Yes, sir?"

" Your old teacher, Shorofsky, came by earlier and asked me to give you this."

"Thanks," said Bruno as he took the envelope. Only a handful of people sat enjoying their meals, it would be a while yet before they'd ask for anything. Bruno glanced around the room, just to make sure. Satisfied, he tore open the envelope and spilled its contents onto the nearest table. Picking up the advertisement, he grinned at the crude drawing of a winking face. "Mr. Shorofsky has such a way with words," he thought to himself, then began reading the ad, his grin slowly slipping away.

"_What's that he's got there?" wondered Angelo as he tried to get a glimpse of the ad. At last the invisible camera man heeded its audience, and zoomed in on the piece of paper in Bruno's hand. It advertised a new record label, promising contracts and a position on the production team. Angelo almost jumped in excitement. Finally, some luck for Bruno!_

Bruno however, remained sombre. This job was out of town, and far from a sure thing. He'd have to move, quit his job, and wonder off homeless into the big wide world with nothing but the music in his head to keep him company. It wasn't a move he favoured. Then again, what harm was there in applying? More like what point. He'd be competing against a thousand people, all with far more experience than he's likely to ever have. There was a better chance of growing wings than getting a job like that.

"Martelli! We have a customer," came the yell that interrupted his thoughts.

"Coming," he answered as he grabbed a pad and a pen.

Without looking up he hurried over to the new arrival. "What can I-", he began, but stopped as he saw who exactly he was serving. Bruno cleared his throat, and tried again, attempting to quiet his nerves. "What can I get you ma'am?"

Miss Bernie stared at the young man for a minute. "Oh don't worry yourself over an old horse like me, Dearie, just a quick cup of tea and we'll be off in a jiffy!"

Bruno nodded, and hurried off, forgetting to ask whether Bernie would prefer milk or lemon, or any particular brand of tea. He dropped off the order, and found Caruso.

"Do we have any sort of regulations regarding service to the mentally insane?" he asked his boss.

"Not in particular, why?"

"Because that lady out there is insane."

Caruso glanced over, and saw Miss Bernie at the table, "Oh calm yourself boy, she's harmless."

"Harmless! I've heard her singing about setting fires. She kept asking me if I'd seen her dead son when she'd just told me he was dead. She's mad, mad and needs help."

"She's quiet enough around here, and as long as she stays quiet, we have no reason to throw her out."

"But-"

"And until you can show me a degree in psychology, you have no right to declare her mad."

"Give me five minutes to run home and order one," growled Bruno frustrated.

Caruso laughed as he headed into his office, "That's the spirit Martelli. Don't worry, she doesn't stay long."

Bruno ran his hands through his hair, and paused, thinking.

"Fine," he said, "Fine. In a few years I'll come back and diagnose everyone as a lunatic," he muttered to himself. Taking a deep breath, he composed himself and drew on his reserves of patience. Returning to work, he grabbed Miss Bernie's tea and strode over to her table. "Here you are," he declared, almost too cheerfully.

Miss Bernie smiled and began to sip her tea, ignoring Bruno. He shook his head, and walked over to the bar, where he'd left his envelope. It was gone, not on the table, not on the floor. Glancing around, Bruno sighed as he spotted the ad in the little old woman's hand. Having no other choice, he approached her again.

"Ma'am," he said, causing her searching eyes to slowly rise from the ad and settle on his. She was indeed an eerie sight. The light illuminated her unnaturally dilated eyes; her gaze black hole-like, sucking in all those brave enough to meet them.

Bruno shivered, remembered etiquette and his position as a waiter, and tried again. "Excuse me, Ma'am, but I believe that ad belongs to me."

"Belongs to him he says? When it was just lying there, abandoned and forgotten. No one has cared for the poor dear, no one to look after him," she said as she stroked the piece of paper, "Burn it we could, yes we could. Strike a match and they would burn, both man and wood."

Bruno wondered whether she was referring to the paper, to him, or to someone else entirely. He was surprised she'd been able to conclude that the ad represented something very valuable to him. She seemed to possess some sort of backwards intellect, hidden among the babble.

Determined not to let a little old lady get the best of him, Bruno tried again, "Please, may I have it back?"

Miss Bernie considered this. "Cold be a heart without desire, cold be the heart with passion untried," she said as she handed back the ad.

Bruno nodded, and turned away, still thinking. Perhaps she wasn't as bad as he'd thought. She's just a poor old eccentric granny without anyone to be a granny to. Bruno smirked, with such thoughts he really would end up as a therapist.

"Making friends?" teased Caruso.

"Yes, I'm starting a charity, friends for old eccentrics, care to make a donation?" Bruno replied.

"Yeah, it's called your paycheque. Speaking of which, I don't pay you for standing around and looking pretty," Caruso smiled, taking the edge off his words.

"Yes sir!" Bruno saluted, and turned towards the tables.

_Angelo sighed, content. Along with his curly hair, his son had also inherited his mother's wit. He remembered fondly the first time Bruno put together a band. They'd been practicing for weeks and Angelo was worried that Bruno was making everyone work far too hard. One morning, on the drive to school, he brought up the topic. He'd warned him against practicing too much. In response, his sweet, innocent, naïve son said "Making music is like making love, each time it's great, but it can always be better." Angelo had been so surprised that he'd spilt his boiling hot coffee. Life with Bruno had certainly never been dull. _

Caruso's prediction that Bernadette would only stay a short while proved incredibly false. She stayed until closing, observing the other customers, eventually breaking out a newspaper and pretending to read.

After he placed the closed sign in the window and finished stacking the chairs, (all save Miss Bernie's of course) Bruno sat down by the piano. He stretched his fingers, and stroked the keys, the excitement rising in him as it always did. As he pressed a key, the single note resounded through the almost empty restaurant. Bruno smiled, playing and composing always reminded him of better days, they were his own personal time machines. Scribbling a few notes on a scrap piece of paper, he began again, this time playing the entire chord. He played it again and again, each time making a slight modification. The replacement of a note, a slight change in tempo, he tried it an octave higher and an octave lower. He played it until it worked. When it finally did, he excitedly transcribed the sound to paper, and played the entire piece from the beginning. Music filled the room, painting the world in the shades of Bruno's imagination.

The piece wound down, and came to its end. Bruno struck the last note. As it lingered in the air, he found himself face to face with Miss Bernie. Slowly, deliberately, she clapped her hands together, in true appreciation of the show. She patted his head with her long fingers, and turned towards the door. It seemed as though she'd been waiting for this, she'd stayed all day just to hear him play. Despite himself Bruno smiled. That crazy old lady was beginning to worm her way into his heart.

"Good night sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest," quoted Miss Bernie with a dramatic bow as she opened the door.

_Angelo recalled a time when Bruno had been reluctant to let anyone listen to him play. He had even requiring coaxing to let his own dear father stay. Thankfully, that stage had passed. Look at him now, not only playing but composing with a stranger in the room! "Bless that old school of his," thought Angelo as the screen once again faded out, the picture of his son by the synthesizer still vivid in his mind. _


End file.
